


apricity

by kousanoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Tendou Satori (mentioned) - Freeform, Ushijima Wakatoshi (mentioned) - Freeform, Washijou Tanji (mentioned), handwavey canon-compliant, post shiratorizawa vs karasuno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kousanoes/pseuds/kousanoes
Summary: While volleyball is a team sport, you should have been stronger.
Relationships: Semi Eita & Shirabu Kenjirou
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	apricity

**Author's Note:**

> * i changed my username from _quartzses_ to _kousanoes_! finally decided to start using this pseud to post smaller works and writing exercises.  
> * i don't know what the weather in japan is like, but where i live, it snows in november, OK? let me get away with this.  
> * please suspend your disbelief; it's been a hot minute since i've rewatched/reread the shiratorizawa vs. karasuno match. i'm running on fumes rn & the best my memory can give me

This is a fight against yourself and nobody else, you tell yourself. It is not his fault that you are _not good enough_ and too stubborn to change. It is your fault, your fault, your fault. 

Coach Washijo would say the same, you think. _No_ , you tell the mini-Tendou in your brain, _I am not bitter_. 

It is snowing outside. You unwrap the tape from your hands, slowly and surely. It is an action you have done hundreds of times, first from middle school, when you first learned how to set with a volley rather than a pass. 

Everyone else has left already—tails tucked between their legs, too sad to do otherwise. 

Face it: you lost. You lost, and played no positive part in the game. 

Face it: you lost. You lost, despite putting your 110% into the game, and despite spending every other second thinking, breathing, teaching. You gave it your all, and yet. And yet your years are over, gone. You are never to touch a ball the same way again, you think, not to watch it fall and float and soar. 

Your future is not invested in the sport: if it were, you would not have lost. You would not have lived this past year like it was a slight against you, not like you had the world to lose. 

You lost, Semi Eita. 

You curl your dominant hand into a fist, short-clipped nails digging into your palms. You keep them neatly trimmed, for this occasion, precisely. For a chance that your coach will think outside of his own head and see that setters are more than a tool to prop the ace. 

You love Ushijima with all your heart; you do. He soars in the air the way you wish you could, with a despicable serve and a spike you enjoy setting for. He is, you think, a true gem among all the half-polished talent in Miyagi. 

And yet. And yet, you lost. And yet, you have failed as a third-year setter and pinch-server, unable to bring your ace, your teammates, _yourself most of all_ to the next stage. You did not only lose—you failed. 

All that is left for you are the horrors of final-exams, never mind the fact you will have many, many more in the years to come. Pursuing secondary education is a must, for you and your family. A scholarship is no longer feasible; it will not carry you the way it did to Shiratorizawa. 

Oh, how you have made use of the scholarship: struggling in classes, struggling in extracurriculars. 

Do you not remember your deadlines coming up? Do you not remember skipping school for this? 

It is time to leave, Semi Eita. 

You take in one last breath of the salty, sweat-stained air of the locker rooms. Stand up. Your body moves mechanically, on autopilot, packing up your bag and bringing you out the door. 

—Oh. 

Blink in surprise. Your mouth opens, wordlessly, as you take in the sight before you: the other setter. Shirabu. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, voice hoarse from a combination of unuse and overuse. You have never screamed louder than those last few moments of the game, whether benched or playing. 

He looks up from his phone, fingers sluggishly turning it off. It must be from the cold. 

“I just—” His jaw tenses and you can almost see his thought process; it is difficult, articulating yourself after a loss like this. If you were any more petty, childish, you would have blamed him for the loss, but. You are a third-year, and it is about time you started acting like one. 

You tilt your head. “Yeah? Hey—don’t you take the bus home, or something?” Your question, unanswered, hangs in the air as his mouth opens and closes. 

“Yeah,” he says, finally. He straightens up, shoving his hands into his pockets, and steps out towards the sun. There is a fine line drawn on the ground where the shadow from the building ends and the sunlight starts. It looks warm, you think. 

Finally, he turns to you and says stiffly, “Thank you for your advice these past years. I wish you luck with your final exams and university.”

Smile. It is not all bleak. “Thanks,” you say, dry amusement colouring your voice. “Don’t let this get to you; Coach chose you for a reason. Win next time, for us third years.” 

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you think! comments will likely make my day <3


End file.
